


siege

by peakgay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Couch Sex, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/pseuds/peakgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can make the general break. He’s done it before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	siege

**Author's Note:**

> a historically inaccurate mess. normally i wouldn't tag it, cuz whatever, but god. don't squint, that's all i'm gonna say.
> 
> so many thanks to [Kisatsel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/profile) for helping me shape this isn't something comprehensive and, i hope, fun.

Hamilton approaches Washington’s desk at the side of his office. 

“Hamilton,” Washington says, nodding for Hamilton to sit. He sinks into a chair and raises an eyebrow.

“Sir,” he offers back, relaxing if only slightly.

“I have good news,” Washington says, even though everything about the way he’s sitting, and frowning, and looking off into nothing, says otherwise. “Lafayette has managed to procure the visitation of two French dignitaries, men from high places, who have agreed to aide us in this time of great need.”

Hamilton arranges his expression into one of professional curiosity. “Ah, I see. Sir, forgive me, but…” He pauses as Washington flicks his gaze back to Hamilton. “What, pray tell, does this have to do with me? Would you - would you like me to translate, or…” He trails off again, tilting his head. Washington’s expression shifts, his mouth downturned further as his eyebrows knit together.

“I apologize, Hamilton, I hoped I would not have to address this so flippantly but - the men will be staying, here…”

Both of Hamilton’s eyebrows lift. “At headquarters?” he says. “Sir - excuse my bluntness, but to what end?”

Washington stares at him for a brief moment. “We should show these men the utmost respect. They’re _very_ important men, Hamilton.” He stops again, appearing to gather himself as he folds his hands on the desk. He decides it’s better not to ask what makes these men so important that they’re sharing a living space with a group of the General and his aides. “I ask for your discretion, for the time.”

Hamilton digs his teeth into his bottom lip, uncertain if he’s holding back a laugh at the absurdity of what’s just been said or simply out of embarrassment. He shifts in his seat and shakes his head.

“I mean, of course, sir, you know I wouldn’t dream of - of compromising, the situation, and the importance, of, ah...diplomatic...measures…” He fails to find quite the right words, and Washington gives him a slightly amused smile. “Sir,” he repeats, flatly.

“They will only be here for...a week, at most, before Lafayette has them moved to somewhere on the outskirts of the city.” Hamilton, somehow, isn’t so sure this is true. He nods anyway. “It is important, however, that we keep up an air of professionalism.”

Hamilton truly can’t help himself - he laughs. Washington glares at him. 

“I apologize,” he says, “Sincerely, I do, it’s just - you look so _solemn_.”

“This is important,” Washington repeats dryly.

“Alright, well, I won’t transgress your boundaries until these diplomats, or whoever they are, have left.” Hamilton waves a hand. “Or, whatever.”

“I appreciate it, Hamilton.” Washington rises and Hamilton follows the movement, tipping his head in a sort of faux-bow. At the very least, Washington seems to smile. “You’re dismissed,” he says lightly, and Hamilton murmurs a “Yes, sir,” and slips out of the office.

-

The days seems to drag on much longer with nothing to do but write and wonder if Washington is thinking about him.

Unlikely, Hamilton determines with a frown, grazing the tip of his pen along parchment. His wrist hurts. _Damn this work_ , he thinks. Damn Washington for being so careful. Damn the war for being so long, and damn the distance between Hamilton and his own command. Washington’s dismissals, kindly as they’re phrased, still have Hamilton tightly wound and frustrated. Sitting along in the downstairs bedroom at his desk, chipping away at letters to Congress and requests for supplies Hamilton knows will go ignored, only further extends his aggravation.

All this writing is so _boring_.

Even Lafayette is too distracted by the men he’s managed to court, sparing Hamilton only the briefest of smiles before he’s churning out rapid speeches in French and then joking, languidly, as the men laugh. Hamilton can’t help but find humor in the way Lafayette balances these two handsome Frenchmen, every movement of Lafayette’s body flirtatious, every flick of his tongue and lift of a hand, every brush of his fingers along the waistcoats these men wear.

Priorities among the French are very different than in America, but Hamilton already knew this.

What truly bothers Hamilton, and makes the days seem so long, is that Washington will barely even look at him.

Maybe he’s afraid he’ll slip, somehow. Say something out loud that might perk up a diplomat’s ears, make them wonder. Washington had said something about the French being gossips once, but he was just teasing Lafayette, lighthearted, and Hamilton hadn’t thought about the joke until now.

Washington doesn’t invite Hamilton to his office. He doesn’t ask Hamilton if he’s had dinner. He doesn’t check to make sure Hamilton has risen to stretch and walked outside while the sun is still out.

If Hamilton forgets to eat once or twice in the span of five days before Washington spares him any attention again, it’s not worth mentioning.

-

Hamilton knocks softly on the door. No response. Washington is almost always in his office, and although they haven’t spoken in several days, Hamilton can’t really imagine him being elsewhere. He jiggles the handle, just enough so he can tell if it’s locked or not. Unlocked.

Hamilton pushes the door open and slides into the office.

Washington is at his desk to the side of the room, and he looks up when Hamilton enters the room.

Hamilton straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and stands still in the now open doorway. He bites his tongue.

“Hamilton,” Washington says after a tense moment between them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Washington gestures for Hamilton to take a seat, and then sighs. Hamilton remains standing, though he steps a little further into the room, closing the door behind him.

He hesitates.

“Hamilton, speak or leave, I’m incredibly busy.”

Hamilton scowls - of course the man is busy, of course he says it so flippantly, of course he talks to Hamilton like _he’s_ not busy _himself_. Hamilton manages to hold his tongue, and instead just shifts his weight from foot to foot. Washington isn’t looking at him any longer, eyes trained on the papers sitting on the desk. Hamilton thinks, still scowling, that he’s being ignored because Washington likes to watch him squirm more than anything else.

“I simply wanted to know how much longer you suspect we’ll be sharing the quarters with these _diplomats_.” He lets the word stretch and linger, and Washington flicks his gaze up.

Washington goes still before he lets out a breath. “Hamilton - I’m sure you understand the delicacy of the situation at hand.” He waves a hand towards the door and Hamilton opens his mouth. “Alexander, that’s enough.”

Hamilton grinds his teeth and clenches his jaw. “I meant no disrespect,” he says, voice wound so tight he’s momentarily afraid it will crack, and every frustration he’s had will spill forth, unrestrained.

“Of course,” Washington says, more softly now. “Please, then, I have...work.”

Washington isn’t looking at him again.

“Fine,” Hamilton says. “Good night, sir.”

He doesn’t wait for Washington to react before spinning around to stalk out the door.

-

The next time that Hamilton even sees Washington, Hamilton is chatting pleasantly in French with Lafayette and one of the diplomats, a short man with a small but crooked nose and a squeaky voice.

Hamilton turns around as Washington approaches them at the end of the hallway.

“Ah, sir, good afternoon.” Lafayette is the first to speak up, and he looks apologetically at the diplomat, who gives an awkward bow and salute to the general. “We were just…”

“Discussing the value of French assistance overseas,” Hamilton supplies, licking his lips as he smiles at Lafayette and then Washington. Lafayette gives Hamilton a grateful smile and then nods quickly. The diplomat stays silent - if Hamilton has understood him correctly, the man only knows enough English to get him through very basic conversations. It’s the other one, the taller one who Lafayette has shown great interest in, who speaks English well.

Washington nods, but he frowns at Lafayette and Hamilton in turn before smiling at the diplomat.

The Frenchman makes a hasty excuse towards Lafayette and bows again, hurrying down the hall. Hamilton laughs as the man disappears around the corner.

Lafayette frowns at him. “What is so amusing, Hamilton?”

He shrugs. “He seemed afraid to spend more than a moment in the presence of our good general.” They both frown at him, although Lafayette’s expression is more akin to a sharp glare. “I’m sure _His Excellency_ has found the time to discuss matters with these men already? Or is he too busy to give them a few moments out of his day?” 

Hamilton knows, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, maybe even as they’re forming on his tongue, that he shouldn’t have said anything. Lafayette muffles his short laugh with his fist, taking a step back from Washington and Hamilton.

Washington looks at Hamilton, his jaw clenched tightly.

“Well,” Lafayette says, breaking the silence even as Washington continues to stare at Hamilton, unmoving. “Perhaps we should all return to work, yes? Since we are all so busy?” He waves a hand, taking an uneven step back again, an elbow brushing against the wall on his right. “Yes, and I shall see the two of you, ah, in the morning, perhaps?” He raises an eyebrow, shoots Hamilton a half-smile “Have a nice...supper?” Hamilton winces at the suggestion in Lafayette’s voice, barely hidden.

As Lafayette disappears in the same direction the diplomat had hurried off, Hamilton turns and squares his shoulders to face Washington.

Hamilton expects _something_ , some kind of reprimanding scolding or sharp words meant to deter him, at the very least. Something to distract him when he lays awake, alone in the room downstairs he shares with Lafayette, shifting from the discomfort and ache between his legs.

It’s already been _nine days_. He’s counted, marking each one on a piece of paper with notes about whether or not having two French diplomats will actually make any difference in the long-run, two men who, by Hamilton’s reading, only exist to be nervous around Washington and to flirt with Lafayette.

Washington peers at him, dark brown eyes making a study of Hamilton where he now stands with a stiff spine. “Alexander,” Washington says. Hamilton swallows and meets his gaze. Washington’s expression contorts; his mouth opens, his eyes widen just slightly, he furrows his eyebrows. He takes one step forward, edging into Hamilton’s personal space.

Then, without warning, he drags his gaze away, clears his throat, and turns around. As if hit by some sudden, doomed clarity, Washington steps backward and tucks his hands behind his back. He doesn’t look at Hamilton as he nods. “I trust you’ve been hard at work,” he says, the words aimed at the space behind Hamilton’s shoulder.

Hamilton jerks his head further to the side, trying to get in Washington’s line of sight.

He’s almost successful too, except now Washington nods and turns around, heading towards the stairway at the end of hall.

 _Damn them_ , Hamilton thinks, his face flushed as his stomach drops. _Damn them all to hell_.

-

Hamilton doesn’t knock, this time.

Washington is on the large couch in the center of the room, nearest the single window. Hamilton knows that Washington doesn’t sleep here, at least not usually, but it’s a comfortable space. The desk nearest the door, towards the left of the room, serves as a distraction from the more casual centerpieces.

Washington looks rather languid where he lies on the cream colored couch, one long leg stretched along the fabric and the other resting easily on the floor. He’s fully dressed, boots and jacket and all, but his eyes are closed until Hamilton clears his throat. Washington startles.

“Hamilton,” he says. “What the hell.”

Hamilton lets himself smile, leaning back against the door. “You didn’t lock the door, sir.”

Washington only pushes himself halfway up, balancing on his elbows and scowling at Hamilton. “Will you?” he says.

Hamilton grins, this time. “No, sir.”

Washington hums. _No_ , Hamilton thinks, _He shouldn’t be surprised_.

“What do you need?”

Hamilton resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s been nearly a fortnight,” he complains. Washington, at least, looks amused. “It’s unnatural.”

“What’s unnatural?” Washington says. He’s playing his cards close, too careful, and Hamilton is starting to loathe him for it.

He steps further into the room, then decides to lean back against the front of the desk. He rests his palms on the wood, spreading his fingers, and then hoists himself on top. His mouth twitches as Washington opens his mouth to protest, papers shifted and shuffled, an inkwell pushed closer to the edge.

He can make the general break. He’s done it before.

“It’s unnatural that you’ve barely spared me a moment of your time in thirteen days,” Hamilton says, releasing a long sigh. “It’s been lonely.”

“Lonely,” Washington says. He’s sat up now, pressing his fore and middle fingers of his left hand to his temple. Hamilton can play this game. “Don’t you have work, Hamilton?” Then, a different tactic, “You and Lafayette should go out for drinks, one night.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Hamilton says, nodding. Washington is still peering at him with the slightest frown, feigning a headache as he rubs his temples. “Are you feeling alright, sir?” He drops off the desk in one movement, disturbing more papers in his wake. Washington leans back against the couch. “Is the stress _too much_?” He draws out the syllables with sweet concern, approaching Washington with his most believable frown. 

“Hamilton,” Washington says, and the intonation in the name is a warning but Hamilton presses forward, dropping to his knees and shuffling close to Washington’s legs. He rests a hand on his knee and leans forward. “ _Alexander_.”

“Relax, Your Excellency,” he says with an easy smile, bending to kiss the space above his hand at the inside of Washington’s thigh. 

Washington makes a softer sound in the back of his throat, the fight fading from his voice. “Stand up, Hamilton,” he says, and he does sound tired this time. Hamilton pushes himself to his feet.

As annoyed and pushy as Hamilton is, there’s a wave of fondness when he looks at Washington’s crooked smile. Like this, Washington just looks like another soldier; older, more experienced, but fallible nonetheless.

Hamilton tips his head to press a kiss to Washington’s mouth. He smiles into it when Washington leans forward and grasps the back of his neck.

When Hamilton draws back, he catches the hunger in Washington’s eyes.

He’s won.

Washington joins Hamilton standing, holding him by his hips now. They step, mostly in sync, to the left of the couch, Washington pressing hard kisses against Hamilton’s mouth and then his throat, exposed in Hamilton’s more casual dress. They fumble for another moment, Hamilton grappling for purchase on the front labels of Washington’s jacket. He tugs at it, trying to drag Washington closer. “Sir,” he whispers, hoarse. 

Hamilton follows the single syllable with a soft grunt, his legs knocked apart as Washington presses his thigh between them. Hamilton’s ass presses against the arm-rest Washington has nudged him against, and the rest of his torso is tilting backwards, ready to collapse.

But Washington’s hands hold steady onto his hips, heavy and certain, and Hamilton’s eyes shut as Washington sucks a bruise into a low point on his throat.

It’s a point of pride for Hamilton as Washington strips off Hamilton’s jacket and undershirt, tossing them haphazardly behind the length of the couch before working open his breeches. Once Hamilton has kicked and squirmed his way out of his boots and the rest of his clothes, he stands stark naked, hands braced against the arm-rest, and grins.

Washington’s expression, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open, tongue flicking out from between his teeth, reminds Hamilton of how _stupid_ they’re both being. But it’s been weeks, and they’ve done this in more haphazard places - empty tents at sundown, secluded little banks of rivers after bathing.

It’s been two weeks. Hamilton moves quickly, tugging Washington’s cock from his breeches and giving him slow, sloppy strokes. Hamilton lets out a breath as he watches Washington fully harden, teeth clenched and hips twitching under each pull of Hamilton’s fists.

Hamilton lets go, glancing back up at Washington. He gasps as Washington turns him around. Hamilton goes easily, pliant as he’s pushed down into the rough fabric of his couch. His cock jerks against the arm-rest and he groans, stretching his arms over his head. 

Then the warmth of Washington pressed against his back is gone and Hamilton squirms. He’s about to open his mouth to complain when a slick finger teases against his hole, Washington’s spare hand resting on the back of his neck.

“Please,” Hamilton whispers, anything else caught in his throat. Washington leans over further, and his soft laughing brushes against Hamilton’s neck and earlobe. Hamilton shudders as the wet finger slips inside of him. He pushes back against the pressure, trying to echo the press of it sinking down further. Washington wastes no time, shifting and sliding his middle finger alongside the first. It’s slick enough that it only meets the slightest resistance. Hamilton finds it’s impossible to relax his thighs.

“There you go, there you go,” Washington murmurs. Hamilton’s missed that voice, the sound of it, the deep, throaty thrum against his skin. He whines and tries to push his legs further apart, struggling against the pressure, the awkward stretch of his arms. His shoulders are aching, his hair is falling loose and tickling against his cheek and jaw. “That’s right,” Washington says.

Each drag of the tips of Washington’s fingers sparks something akin to delight in Hamilton, something he still can’t quite name even though it’s familiar. He’s earned this, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s been quiet, he’s barely interrupted the general, he’s stayed at enough of a distance that he _deserves_ this, deserves to be fucked, slow and hard and ruthless. 

Washington must agree to a point, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud. He twists his fingers, thrusting hard and uneven into Hamilton. The third finger is all Hamilton needs, and he breathes out a string of pleading curses, rocking his hips backward, trying to fuck himself on Washington’s hand.

Washington hushes him, letting go of Hamilton’s throat to stroke his knuckles along his skin instead, pulling his fingers out in one long, terrible drag. Then Washington moves that hand to Hamilton’s hip, and flips Hamilton back over again. Hamilton scrambles to follow the movement, trying to keep his feet planted on the floor but hovering just a little, breath caught in his throat. He wraps his arms around Washington’s neck and gasps as the length of Washington’s cock presses against his thigh.

They both adjust, careful to line up this time, and Washington heaves forward with a grunt, the head of his cock burying inside of Hamilton.

The room falls silent as Washington’s thrusts hit perfectly, rocking in deeper. Hamilton clings to Washington’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jacket.

It’s perfect, and Hamilton’s cock is so tight and swollen between their bodies, and Washington is fucking him within an inch of his life, the only sound he releases soft grunts and gasps.

Hamilton stills first, clenching as he hears the voices coming from the hallway.

“Oh, dear God,” he manages to whisper, and Washington stops moving. “French,” he says. “It’s the French - it’s Lafayette and one of the diplomats.”

Washington is pulling back, cursing under his breath, but Hamilton clings to him, heaving Washington forward again. Washington cock shifts inside of him and Hamilton bites back a moan. Neither of them has gone soft yet.

“Don’t pull out, please,” Hamilton whispers. Washington stares at him, incredulous and mouth hanging wide open, but then he hoists Hamilton up by his thighs, steadying him on the edge of the furniture. They both glance hurriedly around the room, Hamilton trying not to teeter too far forward or backward. “Behind the couch,” Hamilton says under his breath.

Washington still looks like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening, but he listens, dropping their bodies to the floor near where Hamilton’s clothes are piled unevenly. Even with the breath nearly knocked out of his lungs and panic rising hot in his chest, Hamilton still can’t unfocus from Washington’s cock, still pressing deep inside of him, hot and hard.

 _Goddammit_ , he thinks, staring at Washington’s flushed face. He has waited too long to let this moment go to waste.

Hamilton grabs Washington’s wrist and presses his teeth into Washington’s knuckles.

It earns him a dirty look, but he doesn’t care, Washington’s cock still teasing and awful and not quite enough. Hamilton’s still hard and leaking against his stomach.

The French grows a little louder, and there’s Lafayette’s bright voice. The jostle of the handle, and the door swings open.

Hamilton bites Washington’s fist.

“Oh.” Lafayette says something in rapid French. Then, in English, “My apologies, sir, His Excellency must be out of his office.”

There’s more scattered French, and Washington is staring at Hamilton again, this time his eyes hot, eager, and a little angry. His other arm braces himself at the side of Hamilton’s head. Washington gives the smallest, most wicked thrust of his hips, moving just a little deeper into Hamilton. Hamilton digs his teeth so deeply into Washington’s knuckles, he swears he’s going to make the man bleed, and he’ll take no responsibility for the action.

Hamilton thrills at the tiny noise he manages to swallow, teeth still pressed hard into Washington’s fist. 

“I swear, I swear - perhaps the paperwork, ah, perhaps His Excellency left it on his desk?” Lafayette sounds deeply concerned now, nervous even, and Washington punctuates the end of Lafayette’s hurried sentence by rocking forward. Hamilton glares at him now, his cock twitching as Washington drags against him.

Hamilton adjusts, opening his mouth to let go of Washington’s fist. Instead, he silently takes one of Washington’s fingers into his mouth. Washington’s gaze stays heated and curious as Hamilton rolls his tongue against the pad of the finger, not yet closing his lips around it. The weight of Washington’s chest keeps him helplessly still against the wood flooring.

One of the men with Lafayette - Hamilton now suspects there may be two, due to the footsteps - mumbles under his breath. Lafayette is chattering away in French, and Hamilton isn’t quite in the state of mind to translate, his eyes fluttering shut as he swirls his tongue around Washington’s thick finger.

“ _Merde_ ,” Lafayette hisses, and Hamilton almost laughs at the frustration in his voice. He even hears his name - _Hamilton_ \- surrounded by more hurried, apologetic French. There’s another shuffle of papers, and Hamilton sucks Washington’s finger into his mouth, making eye contact.

Hamilton hadn’t come into the room expecting to be fucked on the floor, but he says nothing as Washington rolls his hips against him again.

Footsteps. Further away this time. Hamilton breathes a sigh as the door shuts.

Perhaps three seconds of silence pass between them before Washington pulls out and takes hold of Hamilton’s shoulder, rolling him onto his chest.

On any other day, Hamilton would be embarrassed by the breathy moan he makes when Washington pushes back inside of him. But right now, one cheek pressed against the hard wooden flooring, his waist held up by Washington’s broad hands as he’s fucked harder than he can even remember, he simply does not care.

“Sir, sir,” he whispers, “Please, please, harder, more, _come on_.” Washington obliges him, or at least he tries, staccato snaps of his hips and rough, breathless growls against Hamilton’s throat. Hamilton lets the moment wash over him, ignoring the fact that his cock is still untouched, throbbing as Washington’s thrusts punctuate every intense, impossible emotion inside of him.

“Alexander, Alexander,” Washington says. “You could have…” Whatever scalding comment Washington means to make is choked off as he groans and finishes inside of Hamilton, steady thrusts devolving into uneven jerks. 

Hamilton relishes being filled by Washington, his arms shaking as he tries to stay mostly upright. Washington’s hands grip hard into his hips, holding him steady as Washington comes down from his orgasm.

Hamilton manages not to collapse when Washington pulls out and lets go, although he has a overwhelming sense that he has been utterly used and wrecked for a brief moment before Washington hoists him up, wrapping a fist around Hamilton’s cock.

“If you come on the floor,” Washington says into his ear, Hamilton choking on his own gasp, “you’re the one who’s cleaning it up.”

Hamilton shudders, scrambling to grab ahold of Washington’s shoulder as Washington jacks him off with fast, dirty strokes. Hamilton comes, muffling the noise he makes into his fist and shrinking away from Washington’s touch. He spills hot onto the wood, cock twitching as Washington wrings the orgasm from his body.

Hamilton crouches in on himself, making soft noises in his throat, still clamped down on his own fist.

“Alexander,” Washington says, and his voice is now lined with ease and some type of fondness. “Where are you trying to go?”

Hamilton glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t dare look at the spot on the floor, near his own damned uniform. He’s sitting, limbs sprawled awkwardly, nearly a foot away from Washington, whose hand still rests firmly on his waist.

Hamilton sighs and shifts closer, pressing himself into Washington’s side. How the man already looks completely unbothered despite the slight flush in his face, Hamilton is almost certain he’ll never understand. He tucks his chin against Washington’s shoulder.

“That was foolish,” Washington says.

Hamilton laughs. “But...worth it,” he says, testing the words and glancing up at Washington.

Washington hums. “It had been a fortnight,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Truly,” he says, false concern now lining his face, “how could you have survived two more days?”

Hamilton chuckles. “What would you have done if I had dropped dead on the floor? It would have been your fault. The entire army would have been in mourning for _weeks_. I don’t know if there ever would have been enough recovery for us to move on…”

Washington gives his waist a hard squeeze. “Hush,” he says. He sighs. “Lafayette will be looking for us both.”

Hamilton shrugs. “He’ll find us if it’s that important,” he mumbles. “And don’t worry, I’ll get a towel,” he adds, jerking his chin towards the mess. “Just...let me bask, for a few minutes.”

“Yes, of course.” Washington is quiet for a moment, stroking the bare skin of his waist. 

“I’ll make sure Lafayette knows you were indisposed and completely unavailable this afternoon, should he ask,” Hamilton murmurs. He could fall asleep like this, he decides, Washington’s chest heaving slightly with each deep breath.

Washington chuckles and shifts. “I’m sure you will,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> (seige can also be defined as 'a prolonged period of misfortune')


End file.
